


Jewels in Her Hair

by diemarysues



Series: A King and her Burglar [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Female Bilbo, Female Thorin, I am now aware that Minty is not Thorin's horse but ssh, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Dwarves, braids can carry many meanings depending on their number, style, and position. Bilbo is obviously ignorant of such things, which ends up working well for Thorin. What Bilbo doesn't know won't hurt her, after all.</p><p>That doesn't mean that Bilbo won't be out to hurt someone (Thorin) when she finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jewels in Her Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a properly brilliant prompt, which can be found here: [[link](http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/44487411435/help-i-suddenly-had-a-really-detailed-idea-for-a)]
> 
> As you can see, I've practically done nothing. All credit to the prompter. Sorry for the terrible summary.

Bilbo Baggins of Hobbiton was a perfectly respectable and no-nonsense Hobbit.

 

Oh, yes, she’d been prone to adventuring and mischief as a wee Hobbitling – particularly prone, some old biddies would mutter – but as time passed (taking her parents with it), she'd been forced to grow up. Bilbo had learned to live with an empty smial, and learned to run her household as efficiently as any other Hobbit lass worth her salt. She learned to cook and to clean, learned to garden and to go to market, learned needlecraft and penmanship.

 

She even learned to be subtly sarcastic to people she didn't like and how to steal back silverware Lobelia Sackville-Baggins tried to make off with. But that wasn't very relevant.

 

The relevant bit was that, being the perfectly respectable Hobbit she was, she most definitely should not have been perched precariously on a pony, having been accepted into a company of Dwarves and a Wizard and setting out to reclaim a lost kingdom from a dragon. If only her mother could see her now.

 

Bilbo snorted to herself. Belladonna would've probably been proud of her daughter, before insisting on joining the quest herself.

 

When Thorin called for a halt, Bilbo was all too happy to slide off Myrtle-the-pony and onto blessedly solid ground. Although she was grateful to have had the foresight to put on breeches under her dress (and how the grannies of Hobbiton had gaped as she'd run past), Bilbo's poor bottom felt entirely too sore.

 

‘What’s wrong with walking?’ she wondered miserably, taking pains _not_ to rub at her rump. ‘Walking is completely reasonable. Are we in such a hurry?’

 

Of course, she didn’t voice these thoughts out loud. These were Dwarves that thought that kerchiefs were unnecessary, which was just madness. Bilbo considered the cloth she’d been given and hoped fervently that they’d pass by a river soon. It looked like it would need several thorough washes (perhaps in boiling water), but she’d have to make do with just one.

 

“Miss Boggins!”

 

Bilbo sent a supplicating glance to the sky for patience, then turned to the young Dwarf in front of her. She placed her hands on her hips. “It’s not Boggins, it’s Baggins,” she said severely, and watched his face fall slightly. In a gentler tone, she added, “And it’s not Miss, it’s Bilbo.”

 

He smiled brilliantly down at her, and bowed. “And, of course, you already know my name.”

 

Bilbo smiled back, but carefully didn’t deny or agree.

 

“This is for you,” the Dwarf said, handing over a bedroll. “Balin said to tell you that it’ll not be taken out of your final cut (should we have any), because…” He scrunched his nose. “Because ‘all travelling expenses are guaranteed’.”

 

“What a relief,” Bilbo replied dryly.

 

“Indeed! It’d probably have hardly made a dent in your share of the treasure, but it’s nice to have even a little more gold than a little less.” This startled a laugh out of Bilbo, which seemed to please the Dwarf. He then turned on his heel and went to latch onto his blond brother.

 

Bemused, Bilbo shook her head a little and set her new bedroll by her pack.

 

Dinner was doled out (and was surprisingly palatable despite its unpleasant appearance) and a watch schedule set up. Bilbo noted that she was left out of it, and wasn’t quite sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed.

 

All the same, she set down her bedroll and unrolled her blanket – the old blue one her father had insisted they never throw out. Choice and necessity made her settle herself near Gandalf; he was the only one in the group that Bilbo was most familiar with, after all. She couldn’t even remember most of the Dwarves’ names, and it didn’t help that they were all so similar-sounding.

 

Bilbo lay on her side and attempted to get comfortable (an unsuccessful effort). It was odd, she reflected, as she stared into the fire. She already missed her home, but she also felt a great sense of… excitement. Yes. She’d made the right choice.

 

Probably.

 

Inwardly shrugging, Bilbo shut her eyes and hummed a few bars of the song the Dwarves had sung in her home. She smiled.

 

* * *

 

‘Really,’ Thorin thought disgustedly. ‘A _Hobbit_.’ Had she really sunk so low?

 

She snorted. Apparently so, seeing as the Hobbit in question was sleeping across from her on the other side of the clearing.

 

Thorin had always had the opinion that Hobbits were small and skittish creatures that were fond of food and drink and keeping to themselves. Bilbo Baggins had done nothing but further cement this belief in Thorin’s mind.

 

Setting a whetstone to the edge of Deathless’ blade, Thorin found herself wondering why she’d even listened to the Grey Wizard in the first place. He had called Bilbo clever and courageous, but the Halfling had yet to prove this.

 

Bilbo Baggins was soft. She was soft and simple and entirely unsuited to this whole sorry business. Thorin had no right to drag her into all of this, and Bilbo clearly had no idea what she was getting into. She’d come running along with the _tiniest_ of packs and a walking stick. A walking stick! It was not an adequate weapon in any way, shape, or form.

 

Thorin had already told Gandalf she wasn’t responsible for their burglar’s safety. If Bilbo refused to take it seriously, then that was her business.

 

She put all further thought of the Halfling out of mind as she finished sharpening her sword, and moved on to her axe. The air was clean and cool, and Thorin’s shoulders unwittingly relaxed. The Shire was an extremely peaceful country; a place Thorin had not really thought still existed in Middle-Earth.

 

Her lips pursed. Peace. The Dwarves of Erebor had lived in peace, long ago.

 

When Thorin went to sleep that night, after waking Dori for his turn on watch, familiar visions of dragonfire and pale moons were there to greet her. Needless to say, it made for a very poor mood once dawn broke. (Not that most people would call Thorin a ‘morning person’, whether or not a good night’s sleep had been had.)

 

“Do you want my share of breakfast, Thorin?”

 

She glanced at the older of her two nephews and let her facial expression do the talking.

 

“Only, you look like you need it –”

 

“Just eat it, Fíli,” Thorin snapped. “We’re not stopping for lunch, and I’ll not entertain slacking.”

 

Fíli flushed slightly, but didn’t drop his eyes. He just nodded.

 

Good. At least the lad obeyed simple instructions without complaining, which was more than she could say for some of the Dwarves that had served under her over the years.

 

“I want you and Kíli to ride at the rear of the Company,” Thorin continued, tone a tiny bit less harsh. “Make sure there are no stragglers.” Her eyes automatically went to the Halfling, who seemed to be struggling with her hair. It was long enough to rival any of the Dwarves’, and its lack of braids was probably a testament to how young and inexperienced Bilbo was.

 

“As you wish,” Fíli said, bringing Thorin back to the present, and he only went to rejoin his brother when she nodded at him.

 

Thorin watched them for a moment, and remembered the massive quarrel she’d had with Dís prior to leaving Ered Luin. The King fisted her hands. Bilbo was not the only one who was young and inexperienced. But while the fear of her sister-sons losing their innocence – or worse, their lives – was ever present in the back of her mind, Thorin hoped that they would come out of the quest stronger and more responsible Dwarves.

 

Starting with looking after the burglar.

 

* * *

 

It was good, Bilbo mused, that she’d had the forethought to take hairpins with her. (But, oh, if only she’d not forgotten a handkerchief!) Even if the rain trickling down the back of her neck made her uncomfortable, it was at least better than having sopping curls sticking to her skin.

 

Still, she shuddered to think what would happen once the rain eventually stopped – not that that looked like a possibility any time soon. She didn’t think that wet Dwarf – or wet ponies, or a wet Wizard, or even a wet Hobbit – would smell very nice.

 

Bilbo couldn’t help but observe how unfair it was that Thorin seemed most unaffected by the accursed weather. The Dwarf King seemed not to care a whit that she was soaked to the skin. Her spine remained as straight as ever, and the line of her mouth was stern as she looked over the Company.

 

Having never before met a King – of any race – Bilbo found herself wondering if their regal bearing was inborn, or if it was learned as little Hobbitlings learned sums and history and genealogy. There was no doubt at all that Thorin was King; not even when she’d first stepped into Bag End, ill-mannered as she’d been then.

 

There was no doubt even now, when she was dripping rainwater with mud caked on her boots. Her hair seemed impossibly darker when wet, and hung in straggly bunches. Unwittingly, when Thorin turned her head to answer a question from Balin, the line of Bilbo’s eyes went to the exposed nape of Thorin’s neck, and her pierced ear.

 

Bilbo shivered. Probably at the cold.

 

Idly, she traced the shell of her own ear. Thorin was not the only Dwarf with earrings; indeed, it was not uncommon even among Hobbit lasses to adorn themselves with more than just necklaces and bracelets. Bilbo had never fully appreciated the point of jewellery, herself – although now she found herself curious.

 

While Hobbits only pierced the lobes of their ears, Dwarves seemed to prefer heavy metal cuffs – or, in Bofur’s case, what looked like a fang – and did not limit themselves to a single part of their ears. It looked painful and heavy. She rubbed her ear again, in sympathy.

 

Lost as she was in her thoughts, Bilbo didn’t notice straightaway that her gawping had been noticed. She could see that Thorin’s lashes clung to each other in the wet, but this innocuous observation withered away when it became clear that Thorin was glowering.

 

Bilbo dropped her hand so she could cross her arms over her chest, pushing all her annoyance into a frown of her own. She had perfected her glare on the naughty Hobbitlings of the Shire – and, really, Thorin _was_ acting like a complete child. As if the Dwarf had read Bilbo’s mind, her eyes narrowed further.

 

Neither looked away from the other. Neither blinked.

 

“You look to have a cloud on your face, Bilbo.”

 

Distracted, Bilbo sent a questioning glance at Bofur. He smiled. “Then again, this poor weather would put a damper on the cheeriest of hearts.”

“But not yours, Mister Bofur?”

 

He shook his head, water dripping off his funny hat. “I quite like the rain. Even if it apparently means I can’t smoke m’ pipe.” Shrugging a shoulder, Bofur added, “And let’s have none of this ‘mister’ business, lass. I’m just a simple toymaker; I don’t have need for fancy titles.”

 

She didn’t point out that ‘mister’ was hardly fancy.

 

“What is it that troubles you so?” He dropped down on the fallen log she’d decided to rest on, and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

 

“I… was just wondering about you Dwarves, and your ear adornments.” It was a partial truth.

 

“Are they really so strange as all that? I didn’t think that we were alone in doing so.”

 

Bilbo pushed her fringe off her forehead. The action made her catch sight of Thorin again, whose glare had apparently moved on to Bofur. Strange. “Well, maybe not, but – doesn’t it hurt?”

 

“These?” Bofur tugged on his fang-earring. “Nah, ‘course not! Not to say there aren’t other piercings on other parts that hurt like a –” He broke off, clearing his throat. “That hurt very much.”

 

“…other places?”

 

Bofur laughed merrily, and Bilbo quite forgot about Thorin and her childishness.

 

* * *

 

Thorin gruffly asked Dwalin to lead that morning, while her sister-sons scouted ahead. She would take up the rear so she could talk to Gandalf while they rode.

 

As they waited by the side of the path, Minty danced in place a little, clearly anxious to continue on. Thorin patted the pony’s neck as she absently counted the members of the Company.

 

There was Óin, riding beside Glóin and loudly commenting that his brother’s snoring had lessened dramatically over the years. Glóin exchanged amused glances with Thorin. Ori was next, the scribe carefully ignoring his older brothers as they argued (yet again) behind him. Something about forged antiques.

 

Then came Bombur, who was laughing at Bifur’s Iglishmêk. A quick glance at the toymaker’s hand gestures made Thorin roll her eyes. Bofur nodded pleasantly as he went past, before leaning forward and snatching something – likely food – out of his brother’s grasp.

 

Bilbo’s laugh at the resulting protest made Thorin turn her head towards the Hobbit, and –

 

It must have been a trick of the light, Thorin decided, eyes narrowed. Yes, Bilbo had just happened to be riding through a patch of sunlight that turned her mousy hair almost golden. It was up in its usual crown of braids around her head but a few stray locks had escaped and curled becomingly around her ears and at the nape of her neck.

 

Thorin couldn’t stop staring.

 

Bilbo’s gaze met hers. Whatever mirth had been in her eyes slowly ebbed as she studied Thorin’s expression; she didn’t look away, though, and instead put her chin up proudly as she passed the King.

 

Thorin most definitely was not entranced by this. She was intrigued, however, and felt out of sorts enough that she completely missed Gandalf’s amused smile.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, dash it all!”

 

“What seems to be the matter?” Gandalf asked, lifting his hat from where he’d slid it over his eyes.

 

Bilbo frowned balefully at the breeches in her hand. “They’re ripped! I hadn’t even noticed.”

 

“So sew it,” Bofur said good-naturedly as he walked past. “Easiest thing.”

 

“Yes, but I was rather hoping to redo my hair.” What was usually a sturdy hairstyle that lasted more than a week had become partially unravelled after only a few days on the road. Riding tomorrow would be difficult if her hair was all over the place, but it’d be equally as difficult if she was forced to forego her breeches. Oh, dear.

 

“Gandalf?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Bilbo was digging through her pack for her spool of thread. “Do you think you can help me with my hair while I sew my clothes? Might as well save time, cook two meals in one pot and all that.”

 

Gandalf chuckled. “As much as I’d love to help, for all my years on Middle Earth, I’ve never learned such a simple skill. I am sorry.”

 

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped. “No, no, it’s alright. I’ll just have to do this quickly.”

 

“You could ask the Dwarves if they’ll help you,” the Wizard suggested, after puffing out a series of uniform smoke rings. “They are rather fond of their own braids, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

 

That was true enough. Shooting a smile at Gandalf, she closed her pack and scooped up her things.

 

She first approached Fíli and Kíli. They both smiled at up at Bilbo, although Fíli’s dropped a little at the sight of the hairbrush she had in hand. She forged on.

 

“Would you – either of you – mind terribly if I asked you to braid my hair?” She lifted a hand to gesture at the long strands that had escaped her tight braid. “Only, the light is dying, and I’d like to patch these before we set off tomorrow.”

 

The brothers’ eyes were wide, which was quite strange. Kíli spoke first, voice a little strangled. “I – I can’t braid, Bilbo.” He swallowed, face red with what Bilbo supposed was embarrassment (and she did now feel a little guilty for asking). “It’s why I leave my hair be.”

 

Bilbo nodded quickly to spare Kíli any further shame. Turning to Fíli, she raised her eyebrows hopefully, but he shook his head.

 

“I’m afraid I just don’t know how you style it that way, Bilbo. I’d just make a mess of it.” He smiled at her, shrugging a single shoulder by way of apology. 

 

Containing her disappointment, she moved to Óin and Glóin, who were seated closest to Fíli and Kíli. It took no small amount of repetition, thanks to Óin’s rather useless ear-horn, but they both refused her as well. As far as Bilbo could make out from their gruff mutterings, braiding her hair ‘wouldn’t be proper’ since they were married.

 

Bilbo had frowned, but she’d accepted the excuse. Dwarves were strange creatures. Still, of the rest of the Company, there was bound to be _someone_ who’d be able to help her.

 

This turned out to be an entirely wrong assumption.

 

Bombur had burned his hands making dinner, while Bofur had cut his while absentmindedly whittling a new figurine. Bifur (whose words and gesticulations were translated helpfully by his cousin) would likely accidentally rip chunks of her hair out. Dori primly pointed out that he had darning of his own to complete. Ori was busy scribbling in his journal and had barely looked up at her when she’d asked, the tip of his nose pink. Nori had disappeared into the ever growing gloom.

 

Balin and Dwalin were talking quietly, but one quelling look from the bigger of the two had Bilbo scurrying back to her place by the fire before she could even open her mouth. She pouted. Really! In all the time she’d gone asking everyone, she could’ve braided her hair herself.

 

Sitting down with a huff, Bilbo set about pulling the pins out of her braid. She sighed a little as she shook her hair free and massaged her scalp as she stared glumly at her breeches. She’d have to ride without it, tomorrow.

 

Inwardly, Bilbo winced.

 

Someone sat beside her, and Bilbo’s eyes widened when Thorin said, “I notice that you did not ask me for my help.”

 

Bilbo looked up at the King. “I didn’t think that you’d even grace me with an answer,” she replied stiffly.

 

Thorin looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “I didn’t think Hobbits were so rude.”

 

She gasped in outrage. “Of all the –!” How _dare_ Thorin call her rude! She hadn’t been completely and patronisingly insulting within seconds of their first meeting!

 

“I am perfectly capable of helping others, should they ask it of me.” Haughtiness dripped from every word and set Bilbo’s teeth on edge. “Now turn around, Halfling, and be quick about it. The night is falling, and you’ve wasted enough time as it is. Prissy creature.”

 

Seething, Bilbo did as bid. She set her pile of hairpins and her brush down beside her where Thorin could reach them easily, and tried to quell the temptation to stab Thorin with her sewing needle.

 

Unfortunately, Thorin didn’t seem to want to make that easy.

 

“Are these hairpins?” Bilbo could clearly hear the frown in the Dwarf’s voice.

 

“Yes. What of them?”

 

“They are inelegant.”

 

Bilbo’s back stiffened. “They’re perfectly adequate for the job they do, Your Majesty,” she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice and failing miserably. “Not all of us have the luxury of jewel-encrusted ivory hairpins.”

 

“I didn’t mean –” Thorin cut herself off abruptly. Instead of continuing, she started to run the brush through Bilbo’s hair.

 

‘Good,’ Bilbo thought viciously, threading her needle. It seemed like the only way she’d be able to enjoy the King’s company would be if Thorin didn’t talk, or if she couldn’t actually see Thorin. Preferably both at once.

 

With Thorin quiet, though, the silence around the camp was all the more obvious. Bilbo would have looked up to see what was wrong, but Thorin was already pushing at the back of her head, so Bilbo could do nothing more than tuck in her chin and let her hair fall around her face.

 

As Bilbo pushed the needle through cloth, she couldn’t help noticing that Thorin’s fingers were warm at the skin above her ear.

 

Gandalf’s smoke rings, seemingly for no reason at all, took on hues of gold and blue.

 

* * *

 

It became their routine. Every two or three days Thorin would replace the crown braid that encircled Bilbo’s head. While she did this, Bilbo would sew; not just her own clothes, because she wasn’t _that_ clumsy (no matter how much Thorin would argue otherwise). No, the other Dwarves had apparently appointed her their sempstress as they went about their own duties for the evening; gathering firewood, looking after the ponies, what have you.

 

Despite this quality time spent together, Bilbo’ and Thorin’s relationship did not improve. More often than not, one of them would say something to send the other off in a huff – not that Thorin would ever admit that the Hobbit was able to get under her skin to warrant such a reaction.

 

But, Mahal, what a frustrating creature. Thorin had never before met Bilbo’s equal.

 

As Thorin stared ahead at Dandelion (Balin’s pony), she mulled over the enigma of Hobbits and wondered whether all of them were as deliberately trying as the burglar was. It was a daunting thought. A whole green country full of fussy, short beings that could barely tell one end of a sword from the other – no, thank you! She’d rather deal with Orcs on Wargs. At least those were predictable.

 

What was not so predictable was the surprise Thorin felt every time she had Bilbo sitting at her feet. Bilbo’s hair was almost sinfully soft, and despite its thickness, each strand was more delicate than threads of spun gold.

 

Bilbo also had a habit of plucking flowers and slipping them into her hair. Thorin didn’t know if this was newly developed or a practice of old, but it was a silly pastime all the same, and one that made her smell of nectar and perfume. It was not a scent that Thorin was frequently exposed to, nor was it one she particularly enjoyed. It seemed to suit Bilbo, though – possibly because Hobbits called to mind gardens filled with growing things and warm homes under open skies.

 

An absolute contrast with Dwarves, then. They were beings of rock and stone, of metal and mountains. They were known throughout Middle-Earth for their smithing skill and their secrecy (and it was the latter that earned them a reputation of unfriendliness).

 

If she was aware of this, or the many differences between their kinds, Bilbo seemed to be warming to the other Dwarves of the Company and them to her. Perhaps it was the Halfling’s down-to-earth manner, or perhaps the Dwarves were being kind, but it looked like a tentative camaraderie had begun to develop.

 

‘Well,’ Thorin thought. ‘Good.’

 

And it was. The Company should behave as a whole. It meant that there was less of a likelihood that the Halfling would fall off a cliff or be left behind, and it meant that Bilbo was less of a burden on Thorin.

 

After all, it wasn’t as if Thorin had to extend her own hand in friendship. Thank Mahal for that.

 

* * *

 

Trolls! Trolls and Wargs and Orcs! Gracious, if she’d known that this adventure was going to be this dangerous (and disgusting; she still cringed at being used as a handkerchief), well then she’d – she’d –

 

She’d probably have gone along anyway. Oh, Bilbo had been frightened and out of breath, but she couldn’t deny that there had been a tiny, tiny spark of excitement hidden in her chest. The Tookish part of her, she reasoned, that thrilled at adventure no matter how perilous it was.

 

All this reasoning was put aside along with her misgivings once she sunk into the bath provided for her. Ohh, that was good, that was lovely. Bilbo sighed and sat with her head against the lip of the tub and sat in the water for a few long minutes.

 

Really, one of the worst things about travelling was the lack of baths. Not that Bilbo would’ve felt completely comfortable doing so on the road, even if the Dwarves would most likely be chivalrous about it.

 

She finished bathing and washing her hair, perhaps lingering in the water a little longer than was strictly necessary. Bilbo left her hair loose about her shoulders so it would dry, and considered the clothes on her bed which had been supplied by a kind Elleth.

 

“We do not usually entertain Hobbits, Mistress Baggins,” she had said melodiously. Her name, as she’d told Bilbo moments earlier, was Faeldís. “But I think you will appreciate some clean clothes while you are here.”

 

Bilbo had coloured slightly with a mix of awe and embarrassment. “I – I couldn’t possibly –” She shook her head. “Nothing will fit!”

 

“These should.” Faeldís had smiled and spread the armful of clothing on the bed before she inclined her head. “I will show you and your companions to the evening meal when it is time.”

 

That had been very kind of her, and remembering her words further reinforced the notion that Bilbo needed to get dressed.

 

In the end, she chose a deep blue dress (that did actually fit her), with a red wrapped jacket to cover her bare arms. By this time her hair had dried, and she’d already had half of it up before she remembered that they were not currently travelling.

 

Well, when in Rivendell…

 

The braids on either side of her head pulled her brown hair away from her ears, and she fastened them together at the back of her head with a pin. The effect was rather pleasing, even if she said so herself.

 

A soft knock came from the door, and Bilbo smiled as she hurried over to open it. Perhaps Faeldís wouldn’t mind answering a few questions while they walked to the eating area…

 

* * *

 

Hobbits _were_ remarkably light on their feet, as Thorin now had the privilege of discovering. She would have been happy if she hadn’t learned this particular fact firsthand, because it meant that she was alone with Bilbo.

 

“What do you want, Halfling?” Thorin snapped. “And be quick about it.”

 

“I want to know why you’re so prickly these past few days.” Bilbo’s hands were fists at her waist. “Pricklier than usual.”

 

“I do not have to answer to _you_.”

 

“You should, considering you’ve made it your personal mission to belittle me at every turn!”

 

“If you think that is the case, it makes me wonder why you continue to seek me out. Perhaps your constant presence underfoot is cloying to me – have you taken that into account?”

 

“I have, and I’ve dismissed it. Seeing as you’ve been perfectly horrid to everyone, not just me – and not just our hosts!”

 

Thorin glared at the point of Bilbo’s left ear, and the tiny braid above it. She ignored her mind – her oh-so helpful mind – when it supplied the thought that Bilbo now looked very much like a stout Elf.

 

“I am ‘prickly’ and ‘horrid’, as you put so charmingly, because I do not trust Elves. I do not like accepting their ‘charity’, although I doubt the sincerity of such actions.”

 

Bilbo’s frowned deepened. “Lord Elrond has agreed to help you with the map –”

 

“I do not yet know if his claims of needing the light of a crescent moon are true. He could be lying, and merely delaying our quest further.” Thorin truly wouldn’t put such an action past such a treacherous race.

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo sighed. “I may not understand your dislike of Elves, but –”

 

“You’re right,” Thorin snarled, marching up to Bilbo and bending down so they were eye-to-eye. “You do not understand. You cannot. You have never had your people brought to their lowest, only to be denied the most basic of aid. You have never experienced total betrayal as so-called bonds of fealty and friendship are cast to the wind.”

 

Her anger was such that her fists shook as she fought not to grasp Bilbo by the shoulders and shake her until she understood. “I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone else,” Thorin spat, “but until you have had a firedrake tear your life down around you, and until you have been forsaken by those who called themselves your friends, you will never understand my ‘dislike’.”

 

Bilbo looked taken aback by this venom; at this distance, it almost looked like those were tears in her hazel eyes. But that was clearly nonsense. Thorin sneered at the Halfling again, for good measure, before turning on the heel of her boot and stalking away.

 

The sooner they left this place, the better.

 

* * *

 

When her shoulder was shaken roughly, Bilbo grumbled and swatted blindly with a hand. The back of it met a furry cheek with a satisfying _smack_.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Shh!” Fíli’s admonishment was hardly useful, especially seeing as his muffled laughter wasn’t very soft at all.

 

“But she _hit_ me!”

 

“You could’ve been less of a lout about waking me up,” Bilbo grumbled, eyes still closed. “What is it?”

 

“We’re leaving, Bilbo. Thorin said Gandalf will delay for us, but that the Elves will politely keep us here if we dally.”

 

Her eyes snapped open. Fíli and Kíli were squatting on either side of her, the latter still rubbing the side of his face piteously. True enough, they were fully kitted for travel, and she could see their packs by the door.

 

“Did Gandalf _actually_ say that?” she asked dryly, pushing herself up into sitting position and starting to fold her blanket.

 

“He did,” Kíli said, looking amused. “Although I’m quite sure Thorin didn’t use the term ‘politely keep us’.”

 

“Aye, I seem to remember ‘kidnap’ being used quite liberally, with very many curses.”

 

“But none of these curses fit for a Hobbit’s ears, of course,” said Kíli seriously.

 

“Oh, of course, brother.”

 

“Alright, alright.” Bilbo got to her feet. “I’ll just pack and we can –”

 

“No need, Bilbo,” Fíli interrupted.

 

“Yeah, we’ve packed for you.”

 

Bilbo narrowed her eyes. “You what?”

 

“Oh, come now, Bilbo, it’s perfectly fine.” Fíli picked up the bundle of her blanket and tucked it under the flap of her pack. “We have a mother, and we have an aunt. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He smiled. “Your clothes are here, by the way.”

 

“It’s improper,” Bilbo insisted, raising her arms to put her hair into a single braid (obviously there’d be no time to put it up properly).

 

“Here, let me help you with that,” Kíli offered, and nimbly finished and tied off the plait. “There.”

 

“Thank you, Kíli, I –” She frowned. “Hang on. I thought you couldn’t braid?”

 

His eyes grew wide. “I – I –”

 

“I’ve been teaching him,” Fíli cut in, elbowing his brother before handing Bilbo her pack. “And we need to go, now.”

 

Bilbo didn’t buy their story in the slightest – perhaps due to the utterly relieved look Kíli shot at the other Dwarf – but she let it slide and shooed them away so she could quickly change. If they dawdled any more, Thorin herself might come looking for them and it’d be most unwise to give rise to more prickliness on the King’s part.

 

Still, even as they left the valley behind them, Bilbo couldn’t resist one last look at the Last Homely House. Its peacefulness drew her in more than its beauty, and she promised herself that she would one day return. Perhaps she might even live out the last years of her life there.

 

“Mistress Baggins, I suggest you keep up.”

 

Bilbo turned. Thorin’s voice was surprisingly neutral, almost cordial compared to when they’d last spoken to each other (read: argued). There was an unreadable expression in her pale eyes, her shoulders free of the tension that’d been present since they’d arrived in the valley, and Bilbo found that she could only nod wordlessly in reply.

 

She did sneak one more glance at Rivendell before turning to fall in behind Bifur, though.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo approached Thorin that night, she didn’t say anything and neither did Thorin. The King merely nodded sharply. Bilbo had smiled, pleased, and sat cross-legged at Thorin’s feet. She even hummed a little as Thorin undid her single braid.

 

Gently combing her fingers through Bilbo’s wavy curls, Thorin was suffused by a surge of possessiveness, fierce enough to steal her breath. It was then, when she brushed against delicately pointed ears, that Thorin realised what had happened. Even as she cursed herself for her feelings and cursed Bilbo for eliciting them, she felt something click into place within her like the mechanism of a cleverly-made puzzle box.

 

This explained the white-hot anger she’d felt at seeing Bilbo with her hair as an Elf would style it – an irrational anger, perhaps, but surely Thorin was justified. Dwarves were no less selfish in love as they were in all other aspects of their lives.

 

If Bilbo was to emulate another race’s hairstyle, it should be that of the Dwarves. Only Dwarves.

 

Thorin picked up Bilbo’s hairbrush. (One day, she would replace it with one made of the finest horsehair, with a pearl-inlaid handle.) This whole situation was almost inconceivable. She had never expected to find her One at any point in her life, much less on a quest and even less so in a Hobbit of the Shire. Mahal worked in mysterious ways, it seemed, and the King smiled wryly.

 

Bilbo, thankfully oblivious to all of this, sewed on serenely.

 

As for the issue of reciprocation – Thorin could wait. She would wait. Now there were too many distractions, and there was the question of her behaviour towards Bilbo – which had hardly been amiable, hair braiding notwithstanding. No, Thorin decided. They would first reclaim Erebor. Then she would court Bilbo, and make the Hobbit hers.

 

Still. There was no harm in staking claim.

 

She considered the loose brown hair in front of her before stealing a glance around the campsite. All the others of the Company were busy with their own tasks and distractions, already used to the sight of their King braiding their burglar’s hair.

 

Good. There would be no eyes on them.

 

She started with four tiny five-strand braids, two on each side of Bilbo’s head. She twisted them together and fastened them with a pair of spare beads she kept in her own hair, close to her left ear.

 

It was with a slight pause that Thorin delved into a pocket sewed into the inseam of her coat; she pulled out a handful of hairpins. Proper hairpins. They may not have been ivory (as such a commodity had been rare even in Erebor), only twists of silver and gold and steel, but they were strong and they were beautiful.

 

Frerin had made them himself a long time ago, as a gift to Thorin. Her brother would’ve approved of her using them in Bilbo’s hair. Or that was what Thorin hoped.

 

She wound the remainder of Bilbo’s main braid around her head and secured it with the largest of the pins. The cut garnet caught the light and glittered above Bilbo’s right ear.

 

Continuing along Bilbo’s crown, Thorin artfully placed pins topped with pale moonstone and dark amethyst, cool emerald and warm beryl. She may have let her fingers linger after she positioned each one, but there was no one to notice or to pass comment.

 

“Thorin?”

 

The King gave a distracted, “Hmm?” as she considered where she would place the pin with the fire opal. Near the front of Bilbo’s face, perhaps? There it would undoubtedly bring out the brown of her eyes.

 

“You’re taking longer than usual.”

 

Thorin’s fingers stilled. Her voice was steady as she said, coolly, “I am merely ensuring that your ridiculously untameable hair does not escape its confines as often as it does. If you’d rather I not, I’d be happy to shear it all off to a more manageable length.”

 

Mahal. Was she truly incapable of speaking to the Hobbit without being insulting?

 

Luckily, Bilbo only snorted and remained quietly seated.

 

Thorin allowed herself to feel relieved for only a moment before continuing on with her task. She’d left some hair free at the base of Bilbo’s neck; now she made seven braids and tucked them over and into the crown in an invisible fashion.

 

Bilbo was a little startled when Thorin’s hand curled under her chin but she obligingly turned her head to the right, so Thorin could reach her fringe. If she had any objections, she kept them to herself.

 

Finally, there was only one pin left, and the King hesitated.

 

At first glance, it looked as ordinary as dirt and painfully plain, topped by nothing but a small rectangle of silver. On it was a pattern of intertwined runes only a Dwarf would recognise; runes denoting the line of Durin.

 

Thorin exhaled as she slid it into place next to the garnet-pin.

 

“It’s done.”

 

“Finally!”

 

Eyes narrowing, Thorin nonetheless bit her tongue and said nothing. There was no cause to antagonise the Halfling. No matter how striking Bilbo looked when blazing with righteous anger.

 

If Bilbo was surprised by Thorin’s lack of a response, she didn’t say it. “Thank you, O’ King,” she said, curtsying. Though it was probably intended as a mocking gesture, her bowed head only caught Thorin’s gaze more thoroughly. It only caught _Thorin_ more thoroughly.

 

She had seen great veins of gold and silver running through rock, and huge caverns of nothing but shining mithril. She had seen gemstones of every size; from as big as a Dwarf’s head to as tiny as a Dwarfling’s teeth. She’d held fistfuls of sapphires, diamonds, aquamarine, rubies, topaz; she’d let great streams of semiprecious stones fall through her fingers. She’d lived in cool and glittering caves, in immense halls of marble and stone, in great mountains that seemed to have no end. She was no stranger to the majesty and the beauty that the earth could offer, but…

 

But the sight of Bilbo Baggins in front of her with a mocking smile and a demurely downturned gaze, tiny jewels dotted in the coiled crown of braids of her hair, that was –

 

That was something else entirely.

 

* * *

 

“What _is_ it, precious? What is it with the shinies in its hair?”

 

Pale eyes and sharp teeth – nine, only nine! – and those wretchedly choking coughs. _Gollum, Gollum!_ Bilbo struggled away from the creature but it held fast, clutching at her with spindly yet strong fingers. They wrapped around her neck, thumbs crushing her windpipe and making her see black spots.

 

“It stoles it from us! It stoles our precious! _THIEF_!”

 

Bilbo jerked awake, a cry stuck in her throat.

 

She drew a shaking hand down her face, blinking rapidly to banish the remnant images of her nightmare. That was all it was. A nightmare. She’d left the creature in the MistyMountains, and good riddance!

 

Shinies in her hair, though… At the time, Bilbo had been perplexed but otherwise occupied, and after that there’d been the Wargs again, and Azog, and Thorin being a complete fool. Now, though, now Bilbo was free to gently feel along the hairstyle the King had given her.

 

Sure enough, those were _not_ her pins. Bilbo narrowed her eyes. She knew what Thorin thought of her normal hairpins, but this was ridiculous. Bilbo gently tugged one free, making sure she didn’t upset the structural integrity of her hair, and gasped as the pin caught the light of the dying fire.

 

That was most definitely a gemstone. Bilbo didn’t know its name, but she knew enough to be sure it was expensive. Judging by the texture of the other pins dotted through her crown braid, her head was covered in jewels. But why?

 

As she twirled the pin absentmindedly, a quiet voice cut through the gloom. “Bilbo? Why’re you awake?”

 

“It’s nothing, Kíli.”

 

“Looked like you were having a nightmare,” Fíli put in, propping himself up onto an elbow. He peered at her over his brother’s body.

 

Bilbo hoped neither of them could see her blush. “It’s nothing,” she repeated, stubbornly.

 

Something stirred in the trees, and Bilbo wondered if they would all survive another encounter with Orcs. Glancing about, she saw that Bifur was taking watch. He seemed to be fiddling with some collapsible wooden figurine.

 

“Bilbo?” Fíli hadn’t yet lain back down.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We can’t sleep either. Do you mind if we keep you company?”

 

She smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. To think that three months ago she’d never have imagined that Dwarves could be sweet. “If you’d like,” she whispered.

 

The both of them shuffled together with their cloaks, Kíli ending up on his stomach while Fíli lay over his back. Bilbo rested her cheek on her knees as she watched them position themselves, feeling an ache in her heart. ‘It must be nice,’ she thought, ‘to have siblings.’

 

“Why can’t _you_ sleep?”

 

Neither one of the brothers answered her question. Fíli’s eyes slid away from hers, while Kíli looked towards Thorin. Ah. They’d probably had nightmares as she had; only theirs would’ve been visions their King. Bilbo shuddered as she imagined what would’ve happened if the Eagles had not arrived in time.

 

She’d been so certain of being cut down by the Pale Orc or crushed in the powerful jaws of his white Warg. In the last seconds before what seemed like imminent death (and underneath a healthy level of fear), Bilbo had felt absolutely no regret at her actions and did not feel regret now.

 

She didn’t regret running out of her door and out of the Shire, and she didn’t regret running out from the ‘safety’ of the tree and out in front of Thorin. She’d do it again gladly, if she had to.

 

“Perhaps we can speak of other things,” Fíli muttered.

 

“Perhaps you can tell us about Hobbits and your strange Hobbity ways.”

 

Bilbo rolled her eyes. “You can first tell me why you lied about being unable to braid your hair, Kíli.”

 

He looked stricken, and twisted around to exchange glances with Fíli. Fíli shrugged.

 

“Well, we… You must understand, we’re a private race, are Dwarves.” Kíli chewed on his upper lip for a moment. “And we hardly knew you at the time.”

 

Fíli took up the explanation. “You see, Bilbo, our hair is very important to us. We never cut it, unless in mourning.” He reached out to finger Kíli’s dark hair, and avoided the smack aimed at him. “And styling it is something very unique to each of us. Even if _some_ people don’t style it at all.”

 

Kíli grumbled under his breath.

 

“Needless to say, braiding our hair is something we do ourselves. Usually a Dwarf will only allow very close friends or family or lovers near their hair.”

 

That did rather clear up why the Dwarves had all been so full of excuses that day. Bilbo could only imagine that Thorin had ended up doing it because she was tired of the Hobbit harassing the rest of the Company. Bilbo winced.

 

“I’m, er… I’m sorry I asked,” she said.

 

“Oh, no, no,” Kíli said hurriedly. “You weren’t to know. It’d be like… like a Dwarf asking you if it was okay to comb the hair on your feet.”

 

She actually shuddered. A hot blush dusted her cheeks; again, she hoped the gloom covered it. “A-a-and are there special braids? If – if it’s alright for me to ask, of course, I wouldn’t presume to –”

 

“There are,” Fíli interrupted gently, saving Bilbo from her babbling. “The braids in front of my ears, for instance, let all Dwarves know that I am my Aunt’s heir.”

 

“Your Aunt doesn’t have children?”

 

Kíli snorted. “Obviously not.”

 

Well! It wasn’t like Bilbo had ever met their Aunt. She sniffed. “What about the braids in your moustache?”

 

“Ah, those are –”

 

“Those are because he’s vain,” Kíli said gleefully, snickering. From his (hushed) yelp and the abrupt motion Fíli made, Bilbo assumed Kíli had just been elbowed in the bum.

 

She hid her grin. “Maybe we should start with the basics?”

 

“Fair enough.” Fíli raises himself up onto hands and knees before swinging a leg over his brother’s hips. He shoved Kíli’s head down none-too-gently to expose the back of Kíli’s neck. “When a Dwarf passes their first half-century, they put braids here. Seven, for the seven Fathers of Dwarves.”

 

Bilbo wanted to ask about these Fathers, but held her tongue. That story could wait for another day, if they would share it with her.

 

“It’s a symbol of our origins. Most Dwarves keep them for seven years, some longer.”

 

Kíli mumbled something.

 

“Ah, yes. Mother says that it’s very rare for a non-Dwarf to receive such braids but that if it happens, it’s one of the greatest honours they can be given.”

 

“Is it very often that non-Dwarves are given braids by Dwarves?” Bilbo tried to imagine a Dwarf braiding an Elf’s hair. It didn’t quite seem right, even in her head.

 

Turning his head to the side so he could speak, Kíli said, “It’s very rare. Almost unheard of, but it has happened in the past.” At Bilbo’s nod, he went on. “After coming of age, we make our own hair beads and come up with a unique style to set us apart from our peers. It’s an important rite of passage.”

 

And an interesting one. Oh, how Bilbo wished she had parchment and a quill and ink! But –

 

“Does that mean you’re not of age?” She was referring to Kíli – who, now that she thought about it, hardly had a beard to speak of – but it was Fíli who answered.

 

“Neither of us is. Mother was in a right strop about our decision to join the quest.”

 

“Didn’t speak to our Aunt for a week,” Kíli said, sighing.

 

“Your Aunt could hardly have forbidden you, though,” Bilbo pointed out. “But – back to the point – how old _are_ you two?”

 

“Seventy-seven, and eighty-two.” Fíli frowned, his fingers unmoving as he stopped fiddling with Kíli’s hair. He was staring at Bilbo. “Why are you so surprised?”

 

“Because I’m apparently the youngest of the Company?” She smothered her laugh at the flabbergasted looks this information elicited, and tapped her finger against her lower lip. “I must remember to ask Ori in the morning if he knows the date.”

 

“But – but how can you be _younger_?” Kíli had braced himself on his elbows, peering at Bilbo with what looked like pure horror. “You don’t… you’re so…”

 

“Old?” This time Bilbo didn’t stop herself from giggling, although she kept it quiet. “Being mature hasn’t got to do with how many years you’ve lived, Kíli.”

“Although you’ll agree that the five years I have over him has made all the difference.” Fíli smirked, even when Kíli pinched him in the arm.

 

Bilbo shrugged her shoulders a little. “Hobbits don’t live as long as Dwarves do, is all.” Though she didn’t show it outwardly, she hadn’t actually realised it was that much of a difference. Next she’d find out that Balin was younger than Thorin. Bilbo snorted.

 

“How long do they live?”

 

She shook her head and waggled her finger at Fíli. “No, no, we aren’t talking about Hobbits, we were talking about braids. I promise to answer your questions tomorrow, but for now, please continue.”

 

Though they both looked disappointed at this, Fíli and Kíli did obey. Bilbo’s eyes remained wide as she was told about family braids, and courting braids, and even braids that signified blood feuds. How did anyone keep track of so many of them along with all their meanings?

 

There were enough that Bifur’s watch ended while Kíli was explaining how five strand braids were reserved for royalty and their family (and while Fíli demonstrated this on brown hair). Bilbo insisted then that they all attempt to get some rest and the brothers chorused their “Goodnight, Bilbo!”s without much complaint.

 

Bilbo waited until she heard Fíli’ and Kíli’s breaths even out before she carefully brought her hands to her head, counting under her breath. One, two, three…

 

Her breath hitched.

 

Seven. Seven braids at the back of her head, pushed into the rest of her hair to keep them from escaping. Bilbo could hardly believe that they were there, and she had to recount them to be sure she wasn’t imagining things. All the while something sharp seemed to insistently poke at her heart.

 

Thorin had placed seven braids at the nape of Bilbo’s neck. Thorin considered her part of the Company, even before Bilbo had saved the King’s life – and, by extension, before all her cruel words.

 

(Even so, she wondered if Thorin was aware that the braids were doubly appropriate, seeing as Bilbo was 51. 52 if it truly was September.)

 

Heart light at this realisation, Bilbo continued with her explorations. There were braids on either side of her head – she’d felt them when she’d pulled out Thorin’s hairpin – and she counted two above each ear. Which meant that, which meant –

 

Oh.

 

* * *

 

Something had happened.

 

Thorin narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her hand resting on Orcrist’s hilt as they rested from the heat of the afternoon. Normally she would have insisted they carry on, but all were still weary from yesterday. Thorin included.

 

Her armour had saved her from most of the damage the Warg would have dealt, but she was still sore, having narrowly escaped several broken ribs, and had amassed no small amount of cuts and bruises. She’d allowed Óin to examine her earlier in the morning, and despite his unhappy expression, he could not forbid her from continuing to travel.

 

The King snorted. Like that would’ve stopped her.

 

But back to the subject at hand: she was sure that something had occurred, and blamed the poor condition of her body for not noticing it sooner. Her eyes flicked over the little copse of trees they had stopped in, taking in all the members of the Company and their positions and actions. Now that Thorin was really looking, it became immediately obvious.

 

So. Her nephews were avoiding her.

 

‘Just what have they done this time?’ Thorin wondered with no small amount of irritation (and a touch of fondness).

 

Judging by Kíli’s furtive (or what he thought were furtive) glances, it had been his idea. Fíli was making quite sure to always keep his back to Thorin, so she could guess that he’d been the one put the plan together. It took no skill to deduce that both had then carried this plan out.

 

Now, all that Thorin didn’t know was _what_ the plan was, and what destruction it would wreak.

 

A particularly painful memory came to mind, and she winced.

 

At Dwalin’s raised eyebrow, Thorin shook her head. “Crossbows,” she mouthed, and the warrior (and her closest friend) shuddered. That hadn’t been a fun day for anyone on the training fields. Thorin could still remember how her sister had boxed Fíli’ and Kíli’s ears soundly, before dragging them off for further punishment.

 

Eventually, they resumed their trek to the home of Gandalf’s ‘friend’, and although Thorin still had not managed to figure out what her sister-sons had done, she was very much in favour of putting it aside for now. There was something more engaging to see to.

 

Bilbo had decided to walk beside Thorin.

 

Now, having the Hobbit save her from death was galling – that Thorin wouldn’t deny. However, she could not deny the fact that it also made Bilbo all the more attractive in Thorin’s eyes. She had been fearless and fiery and beautiful, even in the last moments of Thorin’s consciousness.

 

Holding Bilbo’s body to hers had been one of the best decisions of Thorin’s life – and one of the worst, in some ways.

 

Thorin was hyperaware of Bilbo’s movements, of the way her hair fell into her eyes, of the way her lips tended to twitch when she wanted to laugh. She now had a taste of the warmth and the softness of Bilbo’s body, of the feel of those short arms around her back. She had felt Bilbo’s cheek slide against hers and couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if she had just turned her head and grazed their lips together.

 

She contented herself, however, with the occasional brush of their hands as they walked side-by-side. Thorin could not speak overly much (as her lungs started burning after extended periods of time), but Bilbo was perfectly happy to chatter away by herself. As she listened, the Dwarf wondered how she could’ve ever considered Bilbo bothersome.

 

Well, alright. Thorin didn’t actually want to hear about the rules of this ‘conkers’ game. But recounting tales of mischief made Bilbo’s eyes sparkle in a particularly fetching way and so Thorin suffered through the explanation silently and nodded when it was required of her.

 

It was only when Gandalf called for a rest (to relax his ‘old, aching bones’) that Thorin suddenly had a horrifying realisation. The guilt on her nephews’ faces – they hadn’t been able to look away in time – was enough of a confirmation.

 

Oh, those _fools_.

 

When the Company partook of dinner, Thorin saw Bilbo reach up to touch the braids over her right ear.

 

She shivered.

 

* * *

 

If there ever was an advantage to being female, it was Beorn’s insistence that Thorin and Bilbo be allotted a separate room. Truth be told, it would’ve been an annoyance at any other time, but right now it was the perfect place for the private talk Bilbo wanted to have.

 

On the way to Beorn’s house – and, indeed, even over dinner – Bilbo had carefully gone over her feelings; namely, her feelings towards the braids in her hair and what they meant and her feelings towards the Dwarf that had put them there.

 

She wasn’t completely certain of her decision to confront Thorin. There were very many ways the whole conversation could go wrong, especially considering the King and her temper and Bilbo’s refusal to back down from it. Bilbo truly did not want to lose what respect and friendship she’d gained from Thorin.

 

At the same time, the Hobbit wanted, _needed_ to know Thorin’s true feelings on the whole matter. Bilbo needed to know if Thorin had placed those braids in her hair with true intent and she needed to know whether Thorin planned on doing anything about that intent.

 

Bilbo needed to know if she should pursue her own feelings or put them out of mind before they got out of hand.

 

Thorin turned when Bilbo opened the door.

 

She was standing by the side of the bed, caught in the act of removing her vambraces. She’d already stripped off the rest of her armour, leaving her in a rich blue tunic and lavender undershirt over her breeches and boots. The light from the fire cast a flickering shadow over Thorin’s face and caught the silver in her hair. It made her look soft and intimidating at the same time; a fey creature that would bewitch you soon as look at you.

 

Bilbo stood and stared and despaired that her feelings had already gotten out of hand.

 

“Are you going to remain there all night, burglar?”

 

The spell broke. Thorin had turned away again, rubbing her forearms, a curl of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

 

“I meant to talk to you, Thorin.” She honestly had. But now –

 

Thorin must have picked up something in Bilbo’s voice. “Meant to?” She crossed her arms over her chest, muscles flexing. “What did you have in mind now?”

 

A slow smile crossed Bilbo’s face when she caught the uncertainty under Thorin’s bravado. “I think you know.”

 

As she slowly made her way across the room, Bilbo plucked the jewelled pins out of her hair one by one. Her eyes never left Thorin’s as she stowed them in a pocket. Her fingers deftly went to loosen the main braid that kept her hair up and out of her way.

 

As her riotous curls fell around her face in waves, Thorin’s breath shuddered out of her and Bilbo smirked inwardly.

 

“Bilbo. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

 

She lazily pulled her hair over one shoulder, watching as Thorin’s gaze immediately dropped to the bared skin of her neck. “Oh, no, I’m perfectly aware of what I’m doing.” Fingering one of the small, five-strand braids still twisted in her hair, she said, “The only thing I _didn’t_ know was the purpose of these when you put them in.”

 

Silence.

 

“Apparently I’m spoken for by a Dwarf of royalty.”

 

Thorin narrowed her eyes and stared down haughtily at Bilbo. “I would’ve made you aware of it at the correct time. When I was ready to woo you properly.”

 

Bilbo stepped closer. “That’s hardly brave, O’ King.”

 

“Bravery has nothing to do with it. It is shameful to pursue someone when you don’t have anything to offer.” Thorin glanced away. “I have nothing to offer you. Not until I have reclaimed Erebor.”

 

Struck with conflicting impulses – she couldn’t decide if she wanted to kick or kiss Thorin – Bilbo settled with placing a hand on Thorin’s chest. “You have _everything_ to offer me. I would gladly accept your heart, and your mind.” Thorin still had her eyes averted. “And your body.”

 

 _That_ had the desired effect. Bilbo’s breath caught at the scorching heat of the Dwarf’s gaze.

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Thorin repeated, her voice gone low and heavy with promise.

 

Bilbo stepped forwards one more time, pressing their bodies together. She almost shuddered at the heat of Thorin’s body and the feel of hard muscle gone tense. Her hand fisted in Thorin’s loose tunic. “Do you really think that?”

 

In reply, the King wordlessly backed away, and only escaped Bilbo’s grasp because it had loosened with surprise. She watched as Thorin sat on the edge of the mattress and… started removing her boots? But why would she –

 

Bilbo almost groaned out loud in frustration. Couldn’t Thorin have at least answered Bilbo’s question or, or chosen not to do something so incongruous? Really, it was a shame that Bilbo was so taken with Thorin, if not she’d be put off by the Dwarf’s circuitous nature and –

 

Her thoughts screeched to a halt when Thorin set her socks aside and looked up.

 

The expression in those blue eyes was dangerous. Bilbo felt rooted to the spot, once again like she’d been put under a spell. Her lips parted slightly when she noted Thorin’s clenched fists and her white knuckles.

 

The realisation that this Dwarf-woman desired her so strongly made Bilbo dizzy.

 

Thorin bid her sit and Bilbo went willingly, her feet dangling over the edge. She braced herself on her palms, leaning backwards slightly, head turned to face Thorin. Forced herself calm.

 

At the first brush of Thorin’s fingers over her jaw, Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered closed.

 

“If any of this is disagreeable,” Thorin breathed, voice soft and intimate, “you will tell me to stop.”

 

Bilbo barely had time to answer before she was being urged onto the pillows, one of Thorin’s hands cradling her head and the other supporting her back. It took a moment to sort out their tangled limbs but finally Bilbo found herself against the feather-stuffed mattress with Thorin between her legs.

 

“Hullo,” she said stupidly.

 

A small, small smile appeared on Thorin’s face. “Hullo,” she mimicked, and kissed Bilbo.

 

It was nothing earth-shattering. It wasn’t Bilbo’s first kiss (and it wouldn’t be her last, if she had anything to say about it), but it awoke a deep hunger in her – the kind usually reserved for her grandfather’s mushroom stew, or for a pipe full of good Old Toby.

 

As Thorin gently grasped her shoulders, Bilbo sighed impatiently through her nose and pressed her tongue between Thorin’s thin lips.

 

Now _this_ , this was – this was starbursts behind her eyes and butterflies fluttering in her belly. Bilbo sunk back against the downy softness of the pillows and Thorin followed, grip now tight enough to be painful.

 

Her kisses were quick and thorough and utterly toe-curling. It was like fighting against a rushing tide – Bilbo was drowning, breathless and loving every moment of it. As blood rushed in her ears, she threaded her fingers through Thorin’s hair, pulling her in to deepen their kiss further.

 

As distracting as Thorin’s mouth was, Bilbo was very much aware of hands pushing at the hem of her dress, inching it slowly upwards. Strong fingers mapped the skin of her calves, then her knees, then her thighs, and left trails of fire in their wake.

 

Really, it was highly unseemly for Bilbo to part her legs and willingly allow her skirt to be bunched up around her waist. She didn’t care.

 

That low and rumbling voice in her ear made Bilbo quiver and clutch at Thorin’s shoulders. “What do you want, my burglar?”

 

Bilbo nipped at her bearded jaw – and giggled when Thorin cursed at her. “I want you disrobed.” A little thrill whizzed through her at this audacity. “Completely.”

 

Thorin’s chin dipped in a courtly nod. “As you wish.”

 

Raising herself onto her elbows, Bilbo watched carefully as Thorin sat back on her heels. She removed her tunic and undershirt in one sinuous motion, somehow seductive despite her military-like efficiency. When Thorin made to unwrap her breast bindings, Bilbo surprised herself by sitting up.

 

“Let me.”

 

She actually tutted as she unwound the strip of cloth; it was in terrible condition. It had once been black in colour but was now gray with age, and frayed besides. Bilbo had half a mind to start an angry tirade about necessary purchases – except her train of thought derailed when she felt warm breath across her scalp. Thorin gently nosed her hair, dropping tiny kisses on her temple and her forehead, and Bilbo’s hands shook.

 

They still shook when she cupped Thorin’s breasts in her palms.

 

Thorin made a low sound, unlike any Bilbo had ever heard her make. “Soft hands,” she murmured, pushing more firmly against Bilbo.

 

The Hobbit swallowed and decided to take this as a compliment, dragging her thumbs across and around nipples to watch them stiffen. Her mouth _ached_ with her craving to lean forward to taste Thorin’s splotchily pale flesh, but she made herself pull back and lift her hands away.

 

Thorin, of course, glared.

 

“You’re not done,” Bilbo pointed out, primly arranging her skirt around her.

 

Something (probably) uncomplimentary was bitten out in the Dwarvish tongue, and it seemed to Bilbo that Thorin managed to throw off her breeches between one blink and the next.

 

Bilbo stared.

 

“Do I meet with your approval, Mistress Baggins?”

 

Thorin didn’t wait for an answer, crawling forwards and crowding Bilbo’s personal space, leering. Bilbo felt like she was being stalked by a wild animal. Caught in Thorin’s piercing gaze and the bracket of her strong arms, Bilbo could do no more than surrender.

 

As Thorin kissed Bilbo lingeringly, her fingers worked to push Bilbo’s dress off her shoulders without bothering to unbutton it first. She would’ve protested – she didn’t need _more_ clothes ruined, thank you – but for the fact that Thorin was now gently squeezing and kneading Bilbo’s bared breasts.

 

Bilbo scored her nails down Thorin’s bare back in retaliation.

 

They explored each other with hands and mouths, Thorin’s half sighs intermingling with Bilbo’s breathy moans. It was a heady torture of fleeting touches as they learned each other’s bodies. Bilbo felt as if she was floating – as if she was again being borne aloft by Eagles.

 

Right up until the moment when Thorin forced a thigh between hers, and her vision swam.

 

She wasn’t quite sure when Thorin had removed her underclothing – one would think she’d notice, surely – but then Thorin’s hands were pushing Bilbo’s legs backwards, spreading them further, and Bilbo allowed her knees to settle over Thorin’s broad shoulders with a sigh.

 

The King dragged her fingers lightly over the wiry curls between Bilbo’s legs, and smirked when Bilbo’s hips bucked upwards. “You’re enchanting,” she said, placing a reverent kiss on her inner thigh.

 

Bilbo went scarlet. She felt Thorin’s hot breath and barely had time to frown before she all but jack-knifed off the bed. Bilbo knew the touch of her own fingers, and of others’, but this – Thorin’s _mouth_ , she couldn’t –

 

Something like a whine escaped her at a particularly hard press of Thorin’s tongue. “Oh, please,” Bilbo panted. “Please!”

 

She expected Thorin to pull away then, and wasn’t surprised when the Dwarf chuckled, the expression in her eyes dark with promise. When Thorin leisurely slicked her finger and slipped it between Bilbo’s legs, she actually went cross eyed in delirious pleasure.

 

‘There’s something to be said,’ Bilbo thought dizzily as Thorin continued to work her with fingers and lips and tongue, ‘about women with beards.’ Delighted gasps escaped her every time short bristles accidentally scraped against her skin.

 

“ _Ah_!”

 

Right. Not accidentally, then.

 

Bilbo let go of the sheets before she pulled them free or ripped them, and instead slid her fingers into Thorin’s hair. She ended up tugging on the dark braids unchecked when Thorin pressed another finger into her, and Thorin hummed loudly in response. Bilbo squirmed.

 

“Again,” she demanded, shuddering and gasping when Thorin happily obliged. Bilbo didn’t care that she was likely causing pain with her grip on Thorin’s hair. She just cared about moving Thorin’s mouth to where she wanted it, especially as Thorin quickened the movement of her hand, twisting and scissoring her fingers, and – oh –

 

Oh, yes, _Thorin_ –

 

Bilbo shuddered in her breaths in hitching sobs as her thighs shook from the curling pleasure that left sparks behind her eyes. Her hands, suddenly limp, fell to the bed. Thorin maintained the teasing pressure of her tongue until Bilbo could no longer stand it, moaning brokenly and trying to twist away.

 

Thorin triumphantly sat back on her heels and licked at her fingers, never once breaking eye contact. Bilbo was left trembling from head to toe at the lewd sight, and it was an almost physical relief when Thorin again covered Bilbo’s body with her own.

 

The King was kind enough to properly divest her of her clothes, though Bilbo made it as difficult as possible for Thorin, caressing and petting and kissing all the skin she could reach. When Thorin threw Bilbo’s mustard-coloured dress to the floor, she growled before setting her teeth to Bilbo’s chest, peppering her soft skin with suckling bites. Pain curled with arousal and settled low in Bilbo’s belly.

 

The world suddenly spun as Thorin’s hands gripped Bilbo’s thighs solidly, and Bilbo found herself sprawled atop the Dwarf. Not that it was a bad position to be in, especially when Thorin took hold of Bilbo’s right hand and slipped Bilbo’s fingers past her lips.

 

Bilbo’s mouth went dry.

 

She was well aware of the wickedness of Thorin’s tongue, watching avidly as it flitted around and between her fingers. The scrape of teeth had Bilbo gasping, as did the sight of Thorin’s hollowed cheeks as she sucked lightly on Bilbo’s digits. One moment more and Thorin was directing her hand downwards.

 

“Impatient,” Bilbo teased, although she allowed Thorin to do as she wanted, guiding her slender fingers in circles.

 

“Slow,” retorted Thorin. The effect was rather spoiled by the way her eyelids fluttered, and Bilbo suddenly noticed how long her lashes were, fanned against her cheeks. She snatched her hand away.

 

“Lift your knee,” Bilbo said.

 

Thorin looked amused at the command, though Bilbo noted a pleased flush high on her cheeks as she obeyed almost immediately. Bilbo’s fingers curled over Thorin’s knee, bracing herself as she threw a leg over the Dwarf’s hip.

 

“What are you –”

 

Bilbo bit her lip as she lowered her body, aligning herself with Thorin. She was still oversensitive from her earlier climax and just the _feel_ of Thorin against her made her want to damn everything and throw all restraint to the wind. But she brought herself under control, reducing their pace so it was bone-achingly slow. Thorin arched her spine and held Bilbo tightly enough to bruise.

 

The Dwarf, Bilbo was pleased to note, did not take her pleasure silently. She started with small appreciative noises, only breaking into deep moans when Bilbo roughly ground down. Thorin actually cried out when the Hobbit scraped her teeth against the skin of her breasts, and groaned with frustration when Bilbo straightened again. Bilbo only grinned.

 

“Tease,” Thorin accused, and Bilbo whimpered at the naked _want_ in her voice.

 

“I’d hardly call this teasing, my King.”

 

Thorin’s blue eyes were liquid bright as she gazed up at Bilbo, her lips red and raw from her biting them. Her hands were tense at Bilbo’s waist, guiding her in counterpoint to the upward roll of Thorin’s hips.

 

Bilbo could hardly think straight. Her world had narrowed down to the Dwarf beneath her, the sounds and the smells thick in the air, the lightning running up her spine. Her nails were digging into Thorin’s thigh while her other hand was braced on the bunching muscles of Thorin’s abdomen.

 

When Thorin reached up and tangled her fingers into brown hair, even all the Valar could not have stopped Bilbo from sealing their lips together as their hips rocked and rocked.

 

She didn’t last much longer, mouth open and pressed against Thorin’s neck. She had enough presence of mind to fit a hand between their bodies, and then Thorin was groaning hoarsely, fingers tangled in the tiny braids of Bilbo’s hair as she bucked and pushed against Bilbo.

 

Bilbo thought that her name on Thorin’s lips may have been the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

 

She gracelessly flopped onto the bed beside her Dwarf – yes, _her_ Dwarf – and stretched, feeling very much like a cat that had gotten the cream, satisfied and languid. She started a little as Thorin’s hand landed on her hip. Every lazy drag of Thorin’s thumb over her skin warmed her to the bone and yet made shivers and tingles run up her back.

 

Bilbo turned her head. “Still think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

 

Thorin’s lips slanted against hers. “Impertinent Halfling.” Her eyes are unspeakably fond as she gazed down at Bilbo.

 

She rolled her eyes even as her heart thumped against her chest wildly. “Oh, do stop with this ‘Halfling’ business. I have a name, as you’re well aware.”

 

“I know. Bilbo.” Thorin kissed her neck softly. “Bilbo.” A kiss to her jaw as she was pushed onto her back. “Bilbo.” Another kiss to her collarbone.

 

Bilbo drew in a ragged breath and dragged Thorin up to meet her lips.

 

They pleasured each other several more times, long into the night – longer than was perhaps wise –, and by the end of it Bilbo found herself comfortably in Thorin’s arms, her head pillowed on the King’s shoulder.

 

She curled her toes against Thorin’s shins as a kiss was pressed to her nose.

 

“So,” Bilbo said sleepily. “Does this mean I get to place the four braids of consummation in your hair?”

 

Thorin snorted. “Only if you let me comb the hair on your feet.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first femslash fic, and therefore I've broken my rule by writing smut on my first attempt. Thanks to [tawnyport](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tawnyport) for looking over it for me.
> 
> Otherwise unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Edit: Because it was brought up - referring to Thorin as King is deliberate on my part. According to my headcannon, Dwarves are the least sexist (since they can't really afford to be) among all the races, and the title of King is more of a job description than anything ;)


End file.
